


the bright line

by Gutstring



Series: coffins and lines [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst and Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Relationships, Villain Route (Telltale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:35:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gutstring/pseuds/Gutstring
Summary: Bruce and John are forced to face some harsh truths.A sequel to "the booby-trapped coffin."





	1. act one: the hand that holds the dagger - part one

You’ve known for a long time that nothing worthwhile in this world is easy, but as you sit at your desk in the manor’s study during a Friday evening, the difficulty of the entire situation with John is crashing down upon you. 

This is the fourth session with the psychiatrist that has ended with John yelling about something you can’t make out, going out of his way to find you for the purpose of glaring at you with burning accusation or to yell at you about something you definitely _can_ make out, and then hiding out in his bedroom to sulk. Noteworthily, this is also the fourth session with the psychiatrist ever. As for the psychiatrist, she gives you a tight-lipped frown and the “patient confidentiality” spiel when you ask what’s going on in there. You wish you could ask John, but that results in one of the two following scenarios: humor to avoid the question or rage to also avoid the question. The rage is easier to handle; you understand rage. You’ve yet to completely understand his relationship with humor. 

Both of the behaviors, you know, are partly because of his alive and well resentment - he blames you for having to be in therapy, after all - and that hurts. It’s another reason for John to resent you, along with what happened in the past. He seems no closer to forgiving you for either than he is to taking accountability for anything that he’s done. The accountability issue is a whole other one entirely, adding another layer of tension to yours and John’s relationship. Any time the subject is even remotely brought up John either looks at you blankly at best or gets cruelly dismissive and aggravated at worst. 

It’s also must be partly because whatever is coming up during therapy is rough on John, and he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing yet. That is your theory, at least. You remind yourself that this is only the very beginning; it’s been less than a month since John moved in, you cannot possibly expect progress yet. 

However, it’s fuel for the catastrophizing. What if John never responds to therapy? What if he never gets better? What if this is all the relationship could ever be? The logical part of you reminds you again that it’s only been less than a month, but your emotions rebelliously gnaw at you, leaving you feeling ugly and raw. There’s a temptation to try to control the situation in some way, but you wouldn’t even know how if you gave yourself permission to. 

For now, you have to wait it out. John will come around when he’s ready, you believe in him. One thing that supports this belief is that he always comes down when his bad mood has dissipated, bright with affection and conversation. At first, this behavior made you passingly wonder if you were being manipulated, but your trust in John led you to the conclusion that it’s his way of letting you know that he still wanted this to be, that he still wanted to try, despite the hardship. It’s a massive reassurance, one you infinitely appreciate. Still, despite the positives, you don’t think it’s the healthiest way for conflict to be handled. In fact, you think that’s a bit of an understatement; there’s a lot here that’s blatantly unhealthy. You’re sure John would have plenty of things to say about you and unhealthiness if you brought that up, though. You place your head on the desk, groaning. 

Your head is lying there for awhile, mind blank, until you sense a presence in the room. You feel him before you see him, his hands coming to rest gently on your shoulders. He rubs slightly. “If you’re sleepy, you should go to bed.” 

Both of you know that your head is not on the desk because you’re tired, and you’re so tempted to break the script he’s setting up and ask him about what went wrong in therapy today, but you go along with it anyway, letting John take the lead with the hope it ends up somewhere fortuitous. You don’t want to ruin this. “I have too much work to do to go to sleep.” 

It’s true; you have a lot of work to do with trying to regrow Wayne Enterprises. You lift up your head and he shifts, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders so his forearm is on your chest. His head is perched on top of yours and you feel him swallow. It’s the type of intimacy that seems to come naturally to John but that you’re still getting used to, even as you shift your weight so you’re leaning on him. 

“It’s a Friday night! We should be doing something fun, like roller-skating, or shopping, or play-fighting! One of the first two will give me an excuse to try out a new disguise,” he says, enthusiasm radiating from his voice. 

John’s ability to transform his facial features with make-up is something that is a genuine aesthetic marvel to you. His pallid skin will get a healthy tan, his sharp cheekbones softened, his thin lips more plush, his green hair brown or blonde or even red. He’s even taken his brush to you. It’s allowed you two to have a tremendous amount of fun together: instead of being the infamous Joker and the famous Bruce Wayne, he’s able to transform you both into average people that can do average things together. You never knew how relaxing it could be to go to the grocery store and have absolutely no one recognize you. He glowed when you complimented him on this, but shined when he teased you about liking his real look the best and you didn’t contradict him. 

“I really do have work I have to do tonight,” you say. 

John makes some sort of displeased noise and releases you, going to lean on your desk, angling himself so the work you were doing is completely blocked from your view.

“Here, I’ll strike you a deal: you play hooky with me tonight and I’ll leave you completely alone tomorrow. You won’t even see a little green hair if you don’t want to.” 

You wonder when you and John will stop speaking in the language of deals. You also wonder at his neediness; he’s always been a bit needy, but you retroactively thought it would get better when you got together and trust was established. It actually got worse. Indulging in it seems wrong, but again, you’re not sure what to do. 

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy spending time with him. You want to enjoy this. 

“Sure, you’re on.” 

He claps in delight. You’re surprised when he leans forward and gives you a quick peck on the lips, grinning warmly afterwards. 

This is such a complicated situation.

* * *

After much debate, you two elect to go rollerskating (largely John’s choice; “Have you ever been?”, “Have  _ you _ ?”, “Not that I can remember, it’ll be fun to learn together!”) Prepping to go out is a multi-hour long process of him assembling your disguise and then assembling his own. You end up looking like a hard-boiled detective from a TV noir movie, which you suspect is exactly what John was inexplicably going for.   


You grimace down at yourself. “You’re going to make me go rollerskating in a suit.”

He scoffs. “You have to do a lot worse in a lot more uncomfortable digs, sweetpea.”   


His own look is a tribute to the neon color wheel, with pinks and yellows and blues that mildly offend your eyes. After you and him are dressed, he insists on standing you both in front of your bathroom vanity, which you quickly find out is solely so he can look at the two of you standing next to each other and cackle loudly enough that it echoes through the manor.   


This house has seen more laughter in the last month than it has in years. It makes it feel a way you never thought it could feel again.

You two get into the modest black 2010 Ford Focus you bought specifically for these secret outings. John instantly rolls down the passenger window, cranks his chair back, puts his feet on the dash, and starts humming along with the radio, the very image of relaxed. You like seeing him like this, especially because you know just how on edge he can be. You’re also a bit surprised; usually he has some lingering tension after a therapy session, no matter how small.   


“You seem like you’re in a good mood,” you say.   


He smiles. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m on a date with Gotham’s most not eligible non-bachelor, the summer breeze raking its way through my hair, my favorite tunes playing! What could I possibly be miserable about?”   


You can’t help but think about his yelling from earlier, about how much you want to ask about it. It’s going to eat at you the whole night.   


You’re willing to admit that you often fall into obsessive thought patterns. It’s part of what makes you good at being Batman; you relentlessly chase leads, you don’t give up on anything that you know is wrong. John, you’ve found, has the ability to strengthen this obsessiveness. This is both a positive and negative thing: on one hand, his betterment is something you can’t ever dismiss from your head, but on the other, any misgivings or wariness you have about him or your relationship buzz almost constantly in the back of your head. You don’t exactly understand why. It makes you uneasy. You have to think about this as little as you can and definitely not let any of it show.   


You wish you could just enjoy your time with John in peace.   


“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling so well,” you say, a little lamely.   


A lot lamely, judging by the look John gives you. “You’re supposed to say, “I feel the exact same way, darling.””   


You don’t want to tell him that you wish you could feel the same way but can’t, so you pivot to a language you know he’ll understand. “I’m not a big fan of this song, actually.”   


This earns you a laugh, which warms your body and relaxes shoulders you didn’t realize were tensed.   


“I’m not sure if we’ll work if you’re dissing the disco,” he says.   


“I’m not sure if we’ll work if you continue to force me to listen to disco.”   


His face suddenly grows serious. “Then we’re in agreement.”   


The expression breaks not two seconds later, replaced with an uneasy smile. He rubs his hand over his chest. “Yeesh, that actually got a little twinge out of my poor heart. Can we not joke about breaking up?”   


“You started it.”   


“Well, now I’m ending it. A joker has his limits!”   


You arrive at the rollerskating rink as the sun sets. John’s not happy that there’s only one kind of rollerskates to choose from, going on a long rant about customization, fashion, and self-expression, but he endures. You put yours on and immediately feel unsteady, but you actually pick it up easily. John, not so much.   


“I’m a fool on wheels,” he groans, clutching the railing with one hand and your arm with the other for dear life.   


You can’t help your smile, and as you look at how miserable but determined he looks, the buzz of the negative thoughts gets quieter. You start giving instructions and he gradually starts picking up on it. After about forty-five minutes, you’re both skating steadily. John looks unbelievably smug.   


“Ha, this is easy, like taking candy from a baby.”   


You laugh. “You’re right, you’re a natural.”   


He stops skating, puts his hand on his chest, and drops his mouth in faux outrage. “Are you making fun of me?”   


He skates up to you, leaning forward so your noses are almost touching. His tone is low and suggestive. “I’ll have you know, there’s plenty of things I know that could humiliate you.”   


This startles you enough that you jolt back, causing John to laugh loudly but good-naturedly. He grabs your hand as he backs up, leading you around the rink.

You can’t help yourself. “Oh yeah? Like what?”   


John whips around, grin wide and just on the edge of predatory. “I know that you sometimes get all suited up just to hang-out, like how a businessman throws on a T-shirt and no pants after they get home from a long day of work.”   


Your eyes widen and your face warms; you went to great lengths to hide this from him. This time his laugh isn’t as good-natured but is equally as loud. He grabs your other hand and pulls you towards him, putting your arms around his back and putting his own around yours. He kisses you slowly.   


“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t tell a soul. It’s our little secret,” he says.   


This is a lot and you feel mildly invaded. Despite this, you notice that the negativity in your head has nearly ceased. You find it difficult to understand the fact that someone that can make you feel so heavy can also make you feel so light.   


Becoming cognizant of the attention of the fellow patrons you’ve garnered, you gently push John back, and lightly swat him away when he tries to grab your hand again. He pouts at you, but stays close by. You two end up spending only a few more minutes on the rink until John announces “pancakes sound  _ amazing”  _ and before you know it you’re at a Waffle House.   


John is scarfing down pancakes at a rapid rate and you’re taking him in. You’ve never been the type of person to enjoy activities like this, but you do with John. It’s another thing you don’t understand about this whole situation.   


John seems to catch something on your expression, as he pauses his devouring. “What’s got you all scrambled?”

You ignore the pun. “It’s nothing.”   


John gives you an annoyed look, you sigh, and decide to continue. “I just am having fun. I always have fun when we go out like this.”   


John smirks and rolls his eyes. “Should I call the priest and see if we can perform an exorcism, as you’re obviously possessed?”   


He shakes the table and gives a demonic growl for emphasis. Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. You lean back, crossing your arms, looking away.   


This seems to melt something in John because his face transforms from mocking to tender.   


“You deserve to have fun, more than anyone else ever. We give that to each other because we understand each other. You may not have been  _ receptive  _ to it at the time -” some of that old, heady resentment pops up for the first time tonight “- but we’re two threads in the same stitch now, aren’t we?”   


He holds out his pinkie finger, wiggling it, raising an eyebrow suggestively. You examine his face closely and see a certain amount of insecurity there, like he’s afraid you’re going to reject him. You realize he’s trying to redo a moment from the past, trying to right something that was wrong, and you clutch your finger onto his. Your heart hurts at the amount of relief you see in his ensuing smile.   


There’s so much you two have to talk about, so many issues that need to be addressed, but it’s nice that you can have nights like these, enjoying each other’s company.   


You hope that doesn’t change. 


	2. act one: the hand that holds the dagger - part two

When you start engaging in pedantic internal discourse as to what constitutes as a lie - arguments about what you can technically get away with, what would technically count as a violation of trust - you already know you’ve gone bad. Still, as you sit on a bench in front of a traditional looking high school on the outskirts of Gotham, you justify your presence through the logic that you didn’t lie to John, you just didn’t tell him something.   


Something tells you that John wouldn’t see it the same way.   


You glance at your watch - 4:57 PM. If you want to participate, you need to go in soon. As you have been sitting there for an hour already, you have a good idea of the type of people who attend the group, something that gives you the same sort of comfort gathering intel as Batman does. Despite this, the amount of discomfort you still feel is nearly palpable, and a decent portion of you wants to go home and pretend none of this ever happened. You already feel enough guilt over coming here, but you know now you’ll feel guilty if you don’t go in, so there’s really no way to win.   


Glancing again tells you it’s 4:59 PM and you know it’s time for some decisiveness. You get up, brush some nonexistent dust off your slacks, and then cross the street to enter the building. The flood of the AC tries to soothe your nerves, but instead you’re reminded of how John hates the heat and insists on keeping the manor at a cool sixty-three degrees. Guilt further encroaches.

Following the arrows with the group’s name posted on the walls, you reach a gymnasium that reminds you a lot of the one you had back in high school. In the center is a circle of chairs, all facing each other. The idea of sitting in one of them and staring at everyone else makes you claustrophobic, but you’re here, and you know this is something that needs to be done.   


It was when you were working with a charity group affected by John’s killing spree that you learned that there was a support group created specifically for victims of the Joker. Your first reaction to this was a non-reaction; you felt blank, smoothed down, like any reaction you could have was wrong and therefore your brain elected for nothing at all. The woman who told you about it, a 30-something native Gothamite named Juliane with permanent bags under her watery eyes and the leader of one of the most reputable charities around, extended you an invitation with a pamphlet and the message, “It’s not fair some freak is fixated on you, you need a place where you can feel welcomed.”   


This made you feel something, but it was the opposite feeling of what she likely intended.   


From there, your initial emptiness bloomed into an intense ambivalence; you were happy to hear that the people that belonged to the city you love were finding solace within one another, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine the things they must be saying about John, which ignited a fierce protectiveness within you.   


In fact, you know it’s going to be a trial to hide your feelings for John during this entire meeting, but again, this must be done. The truth is that you are too guilty to not attend at least one of these meetings, knowing they exist. You try to help with donations, but you don’t want to lose the personal touch, and you want to do everything you can. You did, after all, have a hand in it. You do, after all, love the man who did it all, and are currently housing him in secret. 

You pick a seat at random. You see Juliane already seated, and she gives you a warm smile that you can only reflect back due to years of faking human emotions to fit other people’s expectations. There’s several other people mulling about and seated that you don’t recognize, but you’re being recognized by them. Some whisper, some give you polite nods or smiles, others don’t react at all. Juliane stands up.   


“Alright everyone, let’s get started,” Juliane announces, and everyone comes shuffling to their seats quietly and quickly.   


She sits down again, crossing her legs. “I hope everyone’s week has been good so far. Before we start the discussion, I’d like to highlight that we have a new member joining the fray.”   


She looks at you expectantly. “Bruce, would you like to introduce yourself and tell us why you’re here?”   


Now everyone is looking at you expectantly. You don’t remember the last time you felt this uncomfortable under other people’s gazes.   


“Hi,” you get out, channeling the years of public speaking that were ingrained into you, “my name is Bruce Wayne.”   


You pause. Why you’re there? The honest answer is heavy, sticky, soul-sucking guilt, but you can’t say that.   


Instead, you opt for, “The Joker killed nearly every employee of my company.”

The sentence, “The Joker killed nearly every employee of my company.” transforms into, “John killed nearly every employee of my company.” which roots in your mind and refuses to budge. You have to pause for a moment to absorb the sheer gravity of the statement; you’ve never made it before. You feel multiple things at once; grief, betrayal, resentment, longing. You swallow them all down. This is not the time or place. You don’t know what the time or place for this is.   


Everyone nods like they just got confirmation for something they already knew - and to be fair, from an external point of view, Bruce Wayne has some obvious and understandable reasons for wanting to be in a support group for victims of the Joker - but they’re obviously not correct.   


“I can’t imagine what that was like,” an older woman piped up, looking slightly intimidated to be talking to you.   


You have never been good at talking about your emotions frankly, especially in front of strangers. Besides, you’re here to talk about other people’s emotions, not your own. “It was...certainly horrific.”   


“That’s an understatement,” a husky man in his late 40s says. “That clown ruined all of our lives. My son is dead because of him.”   


You resist the urge to flinch. You wonder what John is even up to right now. He should be having one of his biweekly therapy sessions soon; you hope you’ll miraculously get a text message or call from him raving about how well it went.   


You doubt it. Dread pairs with the guilt.   


“The worst part is we don’t even know if he’s dead or not. He just disappeared! I have to be scared every day of him coming back,” another woman chimes in.   


“I think the worst part is that he never took accountability for his actions before he disappeared. Do you remember how he just laughed through the trial? He could go and rot for all I care, just give us some closure,” Juliane says.   


She looks straight into your eyes. “How do you feel about it, Bruce?”   


Your mind is full of juxtaposed images of John at his best and John at his worst; you remember rollarskating, and rooftop ice cream chats, and roleplaying, and shopping, but you also remember all that violence, all that brutality. Listening to the people in the group opens up something inside you that you’ve been trying to keep buried for a long while now. It seemed best to keep it to yourself when you first were attempting to reconcile with John - to allow him to address his resentments first - but now it’s an issue that’s demanding attention.   


You feel more about it than you thought you did. Them talking about John like he’s a worthless demon grates at you immensely and you want to do nothing but protect, but at the same time, their pain is mirrored in you, in the part of you that resents John for everything he did and continues not to do. And they know nothing of the heartbreak - the  _ grief _ \- that you experienced.   


You feel like this is one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had. You feel like you have to leave.   


You stand up quickly, murmur something about feeling sick, and leave before anyone can get a word in. 


	3. act one: the hand that holds the dagger - part three

You have enough self-awareness to know that you react to intense emotions in two different ways: complete suppression, or a furious and determined attempt to channel them into a project you have control over. You especially love the projects method; you love taking all you are and pouring it into something, providing yourself with relief and power. It’s what you did as a child when you learned about criminal psychology, it’s what you did as a young man training your mind and body, and it’s what you do now with Batman.   


You’re at a loss as to how to cope with this particular set of emotions. Echoing in your head are the words from the people at the support group, everything from the death to the feelings of unsafety to the desire for closure. There’s nothing you can do to address the death other than prevent more death - that’s something you learned long ago - and are already attempting to do. The unsafety haunts you; you know what it’s like to have an unknown phantom you’re afraid of returning. And then there’s  _ closure.  _ The concept seems foreign to you; you’ve never gotten closure for anything that’s happened to you, not really. Once something sticks you just can’t seem to get over it.   


The problem is you can’t let this happen with John. Still, it’s difficult to reconcile what you’re feeling now with your love for him. The only balm for your anger and grief is the thought that all of his actions were mental health-based and he’s at the beginning of his recovery process. You clutch onto that like a lifeline. The cynical part of you reminds you that there’s no guarantee that he’ll ever recover and a big part of this is his lack of accountability, but you don’t know how to reply to that.   


Pulling up to the manor, you sit in your car for a while to collect yourself. You certainly can’t give any indication about where you just were; you’re not sure about the exact reaction John would have, but you’re certain it wouldn’t be positive. You walk slowly to the door, enter, and feel a certain relief at being home until you hear the telltale signs of John rummaging around the kitchen. Breathing in deeply, you go and see that he’s making an omelette. The sight of him doing something so domestic calms you more than you think it should.   


He smiles brightly when he sees you. “Bruce! Guess who’s watched two whole seasons of  _ MasterChef  _ and is feeling like Gordon Ramsey’s spirit has possessed him?”   


“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you.”   


John stops to scrutinize you. “What happened?”   


Obviously you didn’t take enough time to collect yourself, or maybe this is John’s strong intuitive sense for other people. Either way, you’ve been outed.   


Lying isn’t an option, but neither is telling the truth. Given what happened, there’s a desperate part of you that wants to pivot to his therapy session this afternoon. You can’t keep it to yourself this time. Besides, it’ll provide an answer for John’s question.   


“I’m wondering how your therapy session went.”   


His expression instantly sours, and he turns away from you. “Brooding over the monster under your bed, huh?”   


You feel something inside of you crumble at that. “You know that’s not how I think of you.”   


He deflates, but just slightly. “I know. It’s just something the psychiatrist said today…”   


He trails off and doesn’t seem intent on continuing. You want to hold him, but you remember corpses and gas and laughter and bats and you’re momentarily dazed, displaced, seasick.

You break through the stupor to walk up and place your hand on his lower back and, to your pleasure and pain, he instantly leans back into it.   


“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask softly.   


He gives a wide and sardonic smile. “Not particularly!”   


You can’t stop yourself from retreating, which John seems to be expecting, as he quickly grabs your hand and holds it in place. He gazes at you intently. This language isn’t enough for you today.   


“Maybe it’ll help. If she’s saying something that’s making you feel that way I could find someone else,” comes pouring out of you, somewhat unwillingly.   


He grips your hand tighter and sneers out a, “How sweet.” and then seems to reconsider, grip slackening, and says, “That is kind of sweet, actually.”   


He laughs to himself. Looks like you’re not getting your reassurance. Something must show on your face, as John uses his hand to smooth out your brow with a small frown.   


“She, admittedly, _ technically, _ didn’t say anything bad. I  _ suppose  _ I was being a wee-bit sensitive.”   


Any concession seems like a major concession, and there’s that intent look again, expressive face pinning and serious. You feel yourself breathe more easily. You don’t know if you should allow yourself this.   


“Is that all I’m going to get?” you ask.   


He moves down to caress your cheek, considering. “For now.”

“For now?”   


He nods. “Give me some time to emotionally process. She said some uh,  _ hard-hitting  _ things today. Really looked into the window of my soul. Kind of spooky, actually.”   


You can’t believe a productive therapy session actually happened after the disaster that was the group meeting. It injects you with such elation that you feel like you’re going to burst. If you were a superstitious person, you’d say it was a positive sign, one that you’re doing the right thing and that everything is going to work out. You’re not though, and the group meeting is still well and alive in your mind. You feel that paralysis again, that seasickness.   


John interprets the external manifestation of these feelings negatively, as he gives a little sigh. “Is it possible for you to not angst for a second? Just a miniscule, microscopic, spicy little moment? I thought you’d be happy.”   


“Sorry,” you say, “I’m happy she said something that resonated with you.”   


“I’m not,” he deadpans.   


Before you can respond to that, he continues with, “Well, even if you weren’t happy, lucky ducky you has earned my undying love, so I swoon even with you being angst personified.”   


_ Undying love.  _ Vivid warmth and suffocating dread overcome you. He said it with humor, but you know he means it. You become acutely aware of you two standing in your kitchen, together. Together, despite the volcanic chasm of the past, and the dense fog of the future. Gravity weighs down on you.   


You don’t know how to suppress or make a project out of this. You kind of want to sleep for a thousand years. 


	4. Act One: Part Four

Sleeping would be a good idea if it weren’t for the existence of nightmares. You’re plagued by nothing but a morbid carnival sideshow of John; both past-John, smeared pink eyes and explosions, and of possible-Johns, an agent of murder and chaos with a smile. You toss and turn so aggressively and so frequently that your sheets are no longer attached to your mattress. After finally giving up on sleep, your first urge is to seek out John - so you can verify that he’s there, so you can see him as he is presently and in his infinite potential - but you have no idea what you’d even say to him in this state. You’ve never been so glad and so resentful over the fact that you two elected to have separate rooms, in honorance of the newness of your relationship. 

Thinking back to your encounter in the kitchen, your mind inevitably wanders to the matter of touch. You may want to seek him out now, but there was a part of you then that didn’t want to be near him. This has happened before; it’s always after you can no longer neatly compartmentalize your feelings over the past into a little box to be resolutely ignored, after they come to the forefront and demand attention. It’s difficult not to shy away during these times. You don’t know if John has noticed it, and if he has, what he thinks about it. It’s a certainty that John has his own resentments towards you, yet this doesn’t seem to manifest in his touch. His is frequent, insistent, sometimes overwhelmingly so. Or maybe it does - maybe he’s overcompensating. 

You groan, getting out of bed. Surely there are more productive things you could be doing but laying here, trapped in thought. Getting dressed, you decide to go on a run around the manor’s grounds. Maybe you could burn some of this off, find some pleasant blankness in the movement of your body. 

You leave your room and it doesn’t take you long to pass John’s; he insisted on being close by, a fact that not-so-secretly pleased you. Radiating from the inside, you can hear the muffled sound of the TV on. John’s insomnia was something that you were previously unaware of until you moved in together, but you now know it’s severe. You feel silently connected to him because of it, two people too haunted by their own thoughts and nightmares to stay asleep long. You’re about to go past the door until you hear the thudding of footsteps behind you. Turning around, you see John holding a bowl of popcorn and a soda. He quickens his pace to meet you and smiles. 

“What are you doing up?” 

It is yet another instance where you’re not particularly inclined to tell the truth, but you don’t want to lie. This time, however, you arch towards truth. “I was having some nightmares.” 

John nods empathetically. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

He seems disappointed by the answer, his face falling and his shoulder drooping. He does, however, brighten up a few moments later, saying, “If you don’t want to talk about it, and you’re up anyway, then what you _should_ do is watch a movie with me.” 

“I was actually going to go for a jog,” you say.

“At 1 AM? What if you get eaten by a bear?” 

“There are no bears on the manor grounds.” 

“That’s what they want you to think.” 

You snort. “I’ll have to take the risk, then.”

That earns you a pout. “Fine, but I was going to let you in on something I’m planning.”

You hate how swiftly that reels you in. Against your wishes, your mind instantly goes to the dreams you were having, the realities they may be predicting. 

“What plan?” 

He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Guess you’ll have to watch a movie with me to find out.” 

He winks and pushes past you to get into his room. As you stand there, you still feel the thrum of all that paranoid energy, the residuals from the nightmares. Hiding your feelings from John will be difficult if you’re engaged in more than passing conversation, but whatever he has going on may be too important to pass up. You stand there for a few moments before sighing and walking in. 

He’s already laying stomach down on the bed, controller in hand and food on the ground in front of him. He grins victoriously when he sees you come in, patting the spot on the bed beside him. You plop down.

“What plan?” you repeat. 

He gives you an exaggerated scowl. “Haven’t you ever heard of foreplay, darling? How about, “What movie are we going to watch?”” 

You can feel yourself roll your eyes. “You can pick whatever. Can you just tell me, please?” 

“You know, I thought you’d be eager to know, but not _this_ eager,” John says, pausing to think. 

His face morphs into a look of suspicion and anger. “Unless you think that I’m planning something uncouth.” 

Somehow you always manage to upset him. You avoid his gaze. “Sorry.” 

He laughs bitterly. “Why would I tell you if I was planning on doing something I knew you wouldn’t like?” 

He couldn’t have said something less comforting, but you don’t plan on vocalizing that. You stay quiet, fixing your eyes on a spot to the corner. You hear John sigh beside you and you’re surprised when you see a hand wave in front of your face. You turn back and he looks notably less angry than you expected him to. 

“Whenever you do things like this I want to be so cross with you. You know what my psychiatrist said, though? She said that she thinks I find rage addicting and that, if I allow it to get out of control, it could ruin everything.”

“How do you feel about that?” you ask, a little worried that you’ll sound like a bad shrink. 

Something you should’ve been worried about, if the unimpressed smirk is anything to go by. Still, he answers. 

“At first I was outraged. I mean, sure I get angry, but it’s not _that bad_ . I’m certainly not _addicted_ to it. Who does she think I am? But, then she asked me to think about how anger makes me feel and the consequences I’ve experienced because of my anger. After trying to honestly answer those questions...I get where she’s coming from.

I still think my feelings over what happened between us were justified, and I think I am justified in being angry when you decide to be a distrustful little jerk like you just were, but if I had only let my anger make the decisions, we wouldn’t be here right now. I would’ve never heard you out, I would’ve never come here, and I would’ve never gotten together with you. And I like being with you! I like being here. So that must mean that sometimes it can be misleading.” 

“So! I’m going to work on cooling my jets a bit. The first step to solving a problem is acknowledging that you have one, right?” 

You’re in awe. This is the proof you’ve been longing for that he’s able to be receptive towards mental health treatment, that he can make progress. You’re so proud of him, enough that it feels like your heart is going to burst. It doesn’t dismiss your paranoia, still so strong in light of everything, but it soothes it. 

“That’s great, John. I think trying to do this will be very beneficial in the future.” 

He grins widely. “I agree! Now, what about you?” 

“What about me?”

“How are you going to work on your issues? I know a psychiatrist that’s already being paid a heaven’s worth of gold to stay quiet about certain issues, if you need a referral.” 

You’re a little bemused. “I don’t need therapy.” 

He hasn’t laughed as loudly and as mockingly at you as he is right now in a long time. There are legitimate tears rolling down his cheeks. He almost rolls off the bed. You wait for him to finish. 

“R-right, of course,” he stammers, “what was I thinking, foolish mortal that I am. Who needs therapy when you have fists like yours? You can just punch your demons in the throat. It’s worked for you so far.” 

“What do you think I need therapy for?” 

“Let’s see: trust issues, paranoia, general incapacity to emotionally process important situations, the works.” 

You think about what he’s saying and you’d be lying if you said you couldn’t see where he’s coming from. However, the prospect of getting therapy leaves you dazed. As a child, Alfred tried to get you to see a child psychologist after your parent’s death, but the couple of sessions you had went nowhere. Since then, you’ve always handled things on your own; you’re not keen on letting someone in. Then again, you know that John wasn’t too keen on the idea either and he’s still doing it. 

“I’m not too sure about that, John.” 

“Of course you’re not! That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. In my oh-so humble opinion, I think it would be fair.” 

“I’ll think about it,” you say, feeling immensely uncomfortable with the idea. 

John taps your nose with his finger. “Okay, you do that.” 

You’re lost in thought for a while until the original start of the conversation occurs to you. “So, what’s the plan you mentioned?” 

John forgot about it too considering the surprised look on his face. “Oh yeah! I want to get a job.” 

“A job? Why? Where?” 

“Hey now, slow your roll. I want something to do, something to pour all my energy into! It’ll be fun! I’m not sure where yet.” 

“Most jobs you’d be able to get are pretty boring.” 

“Don’t be a negative Nancy! I’m sure I can find something interesting.” 

You’re conflicted about this. On one hand, him having a job would help him better integrate into society; it could be highly beneficial for his recovery. On the other hand, having a job would expose him to a host of potential stressors that could absolutely decimate the progres he has made thus far, and then some. It leaves him wide open to the world and leaves the world wide open to him. Still, you can’t tell him no; there’s no way he’d take that well and it may come back to bite you in the future because he’ll feel as though you’re suffocating him. Besides, there’s a big part of you that doesn’t want to tell him no, that wants him to be able to do the things he wants to do.

“Do you want me to help?” 

He nods. “With like, false documentation, yes. The actual search I can handle by myself.” 

“Alright, I can do that.” 

He throws himself on top of you. “Thank you, resourceful lover of mine. What would I do without you?” 

You just hope it isn’t too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the several month-long delay. I went through a rough patch, but I'm back now.


End file.
